I’m having that dream again.

The one where I’m standing on the pebbled shoreline of some northern island, maybe the Outer Hebrides of Scotland, maybe the Faroe Islands. The clouds are low, dark, and broken, stretching from the gray horizon of the sea across to the barren lands behind me. The wind is strong and sharp, the kind that would drive you insane over time.

As usual, I am alone on the beach. Alone, except for the dozens of beached pilot whales that stretch out in the surf, their shiny black bodies floundering for air, struggling to breathe. The waves pound over them but it’s not enough to carry them back into the sea.

They are dying and I am powerless to stop them. I can only stand there and stare. My mouth is mute.

Then the black oil bubbles up from their blowholes, a sticky ebony glaze that coats them, the waves, the shore, until it’s swirling around my ankles, then my knees. I will drown with them here.

But this time the dream changes. Off in the distance, from around the bend of the clay cliffs, I see the figure of a tall man, sloshing through the oil toward me.

He’s come to save me.

For the first time, this dream brings a ray of hope along with it.

But before he gets any closer, the oil rises, and I am covered from head to toe, unable to breathe, unable to speak.

Unable to scream.

I wake up as I usually do, sweating and out of breath and it takes me a few moments to realize where I am.

In my room.

In the evening.

The last vestiges of twilight coming in through the window.

What on earth just happened?

I blink and fumble for my phone, finding it underneath my arm. It’s seven forty-five in the evening. The wine and cheese party started fifteen minutes ago.

“Shit,” I swear, jumping out of bed. Thank god I’m fully clothed and still wearing makeup so I can just join the fun. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but I guess that’s what happens when you have too many late nights of studying in a row.

I double-check myself in the mirror to make sure I don’t look horrendous and then head out the door into the lounge and kitchen area that I share with my three other roommates, ready to apologize for falling asleep and being late.

Except that there’s no one here. The flat is empty.

Odd.

“Audrey!” I call out, not wanting to go around banging on their doors. “Catherine?”

I look at my phone again. It’s Thursday night and it’s wine and cheese night here in our dorm. Or at least it’s supposed to be. That was what Audrey had said before I closed the door to my room and proceeded to pass out.

Actually, that was what I had said to her. “I got the best gouda I could find for tonight,” I’d told her, overly proud, like the big dork that I am. Only I don’t think she ever responded to me, just gave me a tight smile and kept walking past.

Shit. What if wine and cheese night isn’t tonight?

I take in a deep breath and try to think. I’ve only been living in this dorm for a month now and the girls had said they wanted to do a wine and cheese night on the first Thursday night of the month. And it’s the first Thursday of October, so…

Maybe they went out and they’re late coming back, I think to myself, trying to stay positive. I go over to the fridge and take out the gouda and sopressa plate I had made earlier, surprised to see all their cheese plates are gone. They were there this morning.

I don’t know the girls that well. I’ve been trying to for the last month but making friends doesn’t come easy to me, especially when they discover who I really am and that ship sailed the moment they found out that Jane was living down the hall.

I lean against the kitchen counter and peel back the plastic wrap I’d put over the cheese, sneaking a slice and munching on it with a defeated sigh. I’d really been looking forward to tonight. I’d been studying so much lately and just throwing myself into all my classes, and my social life has come at a cost. Now I’m trying to catch up, as is what seems to happen every school year. I just thought maybe this year, my third year, would be different.

I gather my courage and text Audrey since she’s the one who is usually the nicest to me: Hey Audrey it’s your flatmate Ella! Just wondering where you are. I thought the wine and cheese party was tonight and I fell asleep so I think I missed you.

Thankfully she doesn’t take too long to get back to me. I’m in the middle of a second piece of gouda when I get her text: Party is already happening. It’s over at Zelda’s at Hawthorne Hall. Didn’t want to wake you.

I swallow hard as I stare at the text. Ouch. The party was moved. I wasn’t told. They didn’t want to wake me up. I don’t know who Zelda is and I think I’ve been told to bugger off.

With shaking hands, I text back: Okay, thanks! I’ll see you when you get home. And then add a bunch of wine and cheese emojis.

Shit. I know I shouldn’t feel upset by all of this, but I’m always the one tagging along, never feeling welcome. There’s a reason I’ve been a loner for most of my life.

Most of it has to do with the fact that as hard as I try to be average, I’m not your average girl. My father is the Prince of Liechtenstein, which makes me a princess. Princess Isabella, to be more precise.

It's more in title than anything else. There are no kings and queens in my country and it's not a monarchy. Prince is just another word for leader and my father is the head of state, having full power along with the government. Nonetheless, I grew up as the sole daughter of the leader of a tiny European country, which means I was raised in a world that was exclusively for the powerful and wealthy.

I wasn't alone in it, not at the beginning anyway. I have three older brothers who are mirror images of my father. Our mother died when I was just three years old. Cancer. Apparently it took a long time for her to succumb to the disease, barely hanging on while the world's best doctors couldn't do a thing for her. They say my father was a different person after she died, which makes me wish I knew him before.

If my brothers take after him, I take after my mother. That's probably why, when I turned thirteen, my father sent me as far away as possible and hasn't had much to do with me ever since. I look too much like her.

Not that I haven't tried to forge a relationship with him, or my brothers. When I was all alone in boarding school in the south of England, I called and wrote all the time, telling him how well I was doing in my classes, practically begging for him to be proud of me, to acknowledge what I was doing. Here I was, a teenager with only her lady-in-waiting, Jane, as her guardian, adapting to life on her own and getting nothing from him in return except a birthday card and the annual trip back home at Christmas time.

I look at my phone, my heart feeling heavier than normal, and wish there was someone else I could call. But there isn't. There’s only Jane.

I text her: Do you want to come over? I have wine and cheese.

Jane has been my lady-in-waiting for nine years now, and the two of us are pretty close. Well, she's the closest person to me but that's to be expected. I know it's ridiculous to even have a lady-in-waiting since I'm not really a princess and the term sounds like it's been ripped straight from medieval times, but it's the rules and I guess it's more for security purposes than anything else.

Jane texts back: What kind of wine?

Any wine you want, I text her, knowing I went above and beyond for this stupid wine and cheese night and got both red and white.

Two minutes later there's a knock at the door.

"It's open," I call out to her.

The door opens and there's Jane in her fluffy leopard-print bathrobe, her dark hair pulled tight off her face except for her blunt bangs which nearly hang in her eyes. Jane is nearly sixty years old, with a round face, a big smile, and an outgoing attitude which usually makes her the life of the party in most places. With this being my third year of schooling, I know that she's the happiest here in this hall of residence than she's ever been, and I think she's living out the college days she missed out on, if only just in her head.

"You're lucky. I was moments away from putting my hair up in curlers," she says to me, shutting the door behind her. She claps her hands together and grins maniacally as soon as she spots the cheese. "Oh, what have we here?"

She shuffles on over to the kitchen counter and I step out of the way to give her full access to the cheese.

"It's just gouda," I tell her.

"Just gouda?" she repeats, looking me dead in the eye, as if I've insulted her cheese sensibilities, a slice dangling from her fingers.

"Listen," I say dryly. "You know me. It was the best damn gouda I could find. It's more than gouda-nough."

She pinches her lips together and gives me a mock glare. "You know I didn't come over here for your cheese puns." A wave of sympathy flashes through her dark eyes, the kind of sympathy that makes me wince internally, like something in my heart just bunched up. Pity. "What happened to your wine and cheese gathering?"

I shrug. "Who is to say I didn't want just you over?"

She tilts her head, examining me. “As much as I know you love my good looks and outstanding personality, I also know you were looking forward to tonight and getting to know your roommates. So what happened?”

“I don’t know,” I say, trying to sound breezy but failing. I turn my attention to the bottle of grenache and unscrew the cap. “I fell asleep and I guess they didn’t want to wake me up, and the party ended up moving somewhere else.”

“So why don’t you go to where it moved to?”

I grab the glasses and pour each of us some wine. “I don’t think I’m wanted.”

Jane doesn’t say anything, so I glance up at her. Her lips are pursed together and under her bangs I know she’s raising a brow.

“What?” I ask, that look meaning something.

“You’re always wanted, Ella,” she says. “I know making friends is hard for you, but it just means you have to be a little more persistent and braver than normal.”

“If they wanted me there, wouldn’t they have told me? Texted me? Tried to wake me up anyway?”

“Maybe they don’t know you enough or feel comfortable with you to do that. You are a princess, after all, and they know that. You know that people aren’t sure how to handle it, how to behave. Maybe they think waking up Princess Isabella from a nap gets you bloody hanged in Liechtenstein, I don’t know.”

I manage a smile. “That’s definitely why the guys stay away from me.”

“It is what it is, dear.” She takes the glass and swirls the red wine around. “And it isn’t going to change. It doesn’t matter where you are or what school you go to because you are what you are. Even if you changed your name and pretended to be some dumb redneck named Mindy from Arkansas, you’d still struggle. You have to be bold, my friend. Be bold and brilliant in all things.”

“So what do you suggest I do?”

She takes a long sip of her wine, briefly closing her eyes and sighing happily. “Speaking of bold and brilliant, this wine is something else.”

“Jane…”

She looks at me in surprise. “What do I suggest you do? Just take this cheese and that other wine, leaving this one here with me, and go find out where the party moved to and show up there.”

I shake my head, feeling panic swirl through me. “That’s pushy. I’ll get on their nerves.”

“You won’t and so what?”

“I hate feeling like a tag-a-long.”

“But maybe that’s just a feeling. They might not see you that way. They might just say, oh hey, it’s Ella, she came after all. Glad she’s here, now it’s a party.”

I shake my head, knowing full well that won’t happen. I take my glass of wine and head over to the couch, plopping down. The thought of doing that brings me nothing but anxiety. I don’t want to be a pain in the ass, so it’s just easier if I stay here and pretend the whole thing never happened.

I avoid Jane’s eyes as she watches me, trying to figure out what she can say next to convince me, but then, as usual, she concedes. With a heavy sigh she brings her glass and the bottle and the gouda, balancing all with ease, and comes to sit beside me on the couch.

“Are there any new episodes of that Making of a Murderer show on Netflix?” she asks, getting herself comfortable before reaching for a slice of cheese.

I grab the remote and turn the TV on. “Let’s find out.”

* * *

The next morning is dreary and drizzly. I spend too much time looking for an umbrella, which already puts me a few minutes behind my schedule, and when I give up and head out onto the campus, the skies decide to open, drenching me in seconds before I reach shelter under an elm tree.

Not the best start to the day. I drank a little too much wine with Jane last night, and despite passing out on the couch early and then dragging myself to bed before my flatmates got home, I still woke up feeling like crap.

Now my head is still muddled and there’s a chance I might be late to one of my favorite classes, Marine Ecosystems. I’m always punctual, early even, and the professor doesn’t look too kindly toward students who come in late.

I cringe at the thought of having everyone in the class stare at me, probably making comments at what a “princess” I am who thinks she needs special treatment or something like that. I crane my neck to look at the sky but it seems to have grown even darker.

Suddenly “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” bellows out from my book bag, making me jump, and it takes me a moment to recognize what it is. My ringtone. It has been so long since someone actually called it—usually I talk to Jane or my family through text or email—that I didn’t remember what I’d set my ringtone to.

I quickly fish the phone out of my bag then nearly drop it when I see the words on the screen. The call is from Liechtenstein, though the number is blocked and private.

Oh, please no, did something happen to my father or brothers?

I press the talk button and hold it to my ear, taking in a deep breath.

“Hello?”

“Is this Princess Isabella?” a familiar male voice says in German.

“Yes,” I answer back, switching languages easily. “Who is calling?”

“This is Schnell, your father’s butler,” he says. I didn’t recognize his nasally voice at first, but Schnell has been working alongside my father as his right-hand man for decades now. I’m used to seeing Schnell as much as my father, maybe even more so.

“Hi, Schnell. Sorry I didn’t recognize your voice,” I tell him, my heart gripped by panic as I realize why he could be calling. “Is my father all right? Are my brothers?”

“Yes, yes, they are all fine. I’m calling on behalf of your father, actually. He has a meeting today and couldn’t call you himself but it’s a matter of importance.”

“Okay,” I tell him, relieved that everyone is fine. It’s not unusual for Schnell to do most of my father’s phone calls, even when it comes to state matters. “What is it? Is there a problem?”

“Not a problem,” he says. “But you have been invited to dinner tomorrow night at the Royal Palace in Oslo.”

What?

“Uh, can you repeat that, Schnell?”

“Yes, madam. The Norwegian royal family has invited you for dinner tomorrow night and your father thinks it’s very important that you attend.”

“But…why? Why me?”

I mean, this is most unusual. I’m never invited anywhere, let alone any place royal. My princess status has been nothing but a hindrance ever since I left my own country. I don’t think the world even knows I exist.

“I am not sure,” he says. “Your father didn’t say much except to say it was mutually beneficial.” He pauses and I swear I hear some murmuring in the background. “Perhaps you can use this opportunity to speak to them about one of your issues.”

I think by issues he means environmental issues. As socially progressive as Norway is, the country has done a lot of harm to the environment with fishing practices and whaling and it’s something I care deeply about. Maybe too deeply. I’m not sure how well a dinner will go if I get all passionate and heated and start yelling at the King and Queen about their policies. I may be shy and quiet ninety-nine percent of the time but when there’s something that gets under my skin, I’m hard to shut up.

Schnell clears his throat and goes on. “We’ve already booked a flight for you and Lady Jane tomorrow afternoon from Edinburgh to Oslo. You will be picked up at the airport by one of their men and taken straight to the palace. You are to wear something demure and appropriate for the occasion. Buy something today if you have to but do make sure you look your best. You’re representing Liechtenstein after all.”

“Okay,” I tell him, though it’s kind of weird to have old Schnell give me advice on how to dress. Though maybe I need it. I glance down at my fluffy black cardigan and ripped jeans. Not exactly the regal look.

“Your father will call you directly after the dinner,” he says. “Take care now, madam, and do reach out to me if you have any questions.”

“How do I reach out if your number is private?” I quickly ask, but it’s too late. He’s already hung up.

I stare at the phone in disbelief for a few moments, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.

Why on earth would I be invited to dinner at the Norwegian palace? It doesn’t make any sense at all. I’m…nobody. Honestly. And though sometimes I wish I had a bigger voice about the issues I care about—hence why I’m going to university—I kind of like the fact that beyond this campus, no one knows who I am. I shouldn’t be on any monarchy’s radar whatsoever.

Unless I’m being used as some sort of chess piece in some inter-country power play. Since I was sent away from my own family and country at an early enough age, I was never fully immersed in the politics and goings on that surround my father and the thirty-seven thousand people that he represents. Could it be there’s something that either my father wants from Norway or vice versa?

Paranoia doesn’t suit me, but I can’t help thinking that’s more than likely the reason for all this. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m going, and now I’m more curious than ever. Perhaps I’ll be an unwitting spy.

First things first though—I need a dress, and there isn’t much time to get one. I’ve never skipped class before, and I feel guilty for doing so, but these kinds of opportunities never come up for me, and it’s not like I can say no to my father when he never asks me to do anything.

Instead of texting Jane, I turn around and run back through the rain all the way to my dorm. I shuffle down the hall, the wet soles of my shoes squeaking across the floor, and then knock on Jane’s door.

It takes her a moment to open, and when she does, she’s peering at me suspiciously.

“It’s me,” I tell her. “I need to talk to you.”

“I know it’s you, I’m not blind,” she says, opening her door wider so I can come in. “Why aren’t you in class?”

“I have news,” I tell her as I step into her closet-sized room.

“Why are you so wet?”

I run my hand over the top of my head, wincing at how soaked it is. “I forgot my umbrella. And I’m not going to class today. Instead, you and I are going to Edinburgh.”

“Edinburgh?” she exclaims loudly. I knew she’d get all excitable about this. She never keeps things very subtle.

“Yes. Now promise you won’t get all, you know, loud about this,” I warn her, putting out my palms as a way of calming her before she can start.

“I’m not loud,” she says extra quietly.

I give her a steady look. “Anyway,” I go on, “Schnell called me. Just now on the way to class.”

“Oh my god, is everything all right!?” she cries out, hand to her chest.

“Jane,” I warn her. “This is you. Being loud. This is what loud is. And yes, everything is fine, don’t worry. It’s just that he called with an unusual request on behalf of my father.”

“Why didn’t your father call?”

“You know why.”

She narrows her eyes. Even though my father is the one who pays her salary, I know Jane doesn’t like him. Her personality with his is like oil and water.

“What does he want?” she asks.

“Well,” I say, taking in a deep breath, “it seems I’ve been invited to dinner tomorrow night at the royal palace in Norway.”

She stares at me for a few moments before she goes, “Say what? You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”

“Someone might be pulling mine, but I’m still going. Both of us are. Tomorrow we fly out of Edinburgh for Oslo. I need something to wear—I assume you do too, unless you’ve got some fancy dress in your closet here”—I pause to glance at the closet by her bed which looks like it holds maybe three hangers—“so I thought we would just head to Edinburgh right now and get some shopping in.”

She’s still staring at me with the same blank expression as before. I stare right back at her, brows raised, waiting for some sort of explosion. “Why?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s some horrible joke my brothers are playing on me. Maybe I’ll go there and no one will be there to pick me up. Though my brothers would first have to know I exist before that could happen…”

“Bloody hell,” Jane exclaims breathlessly, her eyes growing wider by the second. “You’re serious.”

“When am I not?”

“We’re going to an actual royal palace!”

“You act like you’re not the lady-in-waiting to an actual princess,” I remind her stiffly. “You’ve seen the palace I grew up in.”

“And you know that it’s not the same,” she says, clapping her hands together. “Your family’s palace is a castle fit for Count Dracula. That’s what happens when you have only men ruling your country. Oh, if only my mum could see me now. She was so bloody obsessed with all royal families, the type to collect every single mug and collector plate she could get her hands on. Ooooh,” she goes on, “maybe the Prince will be there!”

I roll my eyes and shudder. “Ew. I hope not.”

Jane recoils at that and gawks at me like I have two heads. “Prince Magnus? What’s your problem with him?”

Ugh. Don’t get me started. Maybe it’s because I’ve only been mercilessly teased by those types back in boarding school (princesses are an easy target), I have no patience for men who act like boys or think with their dicks, and it seems like Prince Magnus of Norway is nothing more than a glorified playboy with a fancy title. All I ever see when I flip through the blogs and news is him racing motorcycles or hooking up with a new socialite.

Now there’s a sex video floating around of him and the prime minister of Norway’s daughter, which seems like bad news all around, though I shouldn’t be surprised at the lengths that people go to for more and more fame. “He just seems like an idiot. That stupid smug smile I always see, like everyone wants him or wants to be him. And flaunting all those women around. I mean, hello, who the hell makes sex tapes anymore unless it’s for attention? Yeah right, it was accidently leaked.”

She chuckles. “Believe me, I don’t think he did that for attention. He has enough of it already.” She pauses, a strange gleam in her eyes. “Have you watched it?”

I scrunch up my nose. “God, no. Why would I?”

She shrugs and looks away.

“Jane,” I say slowly. “Have you?”

Her head tilts and she’s unable to hide her smile. “Maybe.”

“Ugh, you’re supposed to be refined, Jane.”

“I am refined!” she yells, her round cheeks going pink. “I just have a healthy dose of curiosity.” She pauses. “It’s going to be hard having dinner with him after I know what he looks like naked. How he moves…the man has skills, Ella. Skills you need to see.”

I raise my palm. “Please, please stop talking. I don’t share my…sex life with you.”

“This isn’t my sex life,” she says with a snort. “It’s his sex tape and it’s all over the news. And need I remind you that you can’t share your sex life with me if you don’t have one.”

I turn around. “This is getting wildly inappropriate.”

“Sometimes you need to get inappropriate,” she calls after me as I head over to the door, my shoes sloshing as I walk. “It would do you some good!”

I open the door and look over my shoulder. “With any luck he won’t even be there so I don’t have to be embarrassed over my lady-in-waiting drooling over the Crown Prince and picturing him naked. I’m going to pack and I’ll come back here in an hour. Just promise me when I do you keep your head out of the gutter.”

She gives me a grave nod, standing up straighter, and I know there will be no promises. Sometimes it feels like I’m the one keeping Jane in line and not the other way around. This time though, I know the both of us have no idea what to expect.

For once I’m going to have to put on my princess face and act like I belong.